Poetry

Lunatic will
not go for adultery, like
a river which doesn't come
face to face with ocean.

Ink of genuine
poetry spills on the wings
of a dying butterfly that spreads―
out without bleeding.

The poet has nothing else
to say. It was a spirtitual
fault. Man tries to overrun
the god.

The raging viper, likes
the soul, to negate the thoughts
towards anonymity to read
the age of sun.